[Dream Journal]

Last night I saw the brandon Teena Story and Boys don't cry.  Apparently the
director was given funding to do her work and make her documentary into a
movie.  Interesting.  Very emotional.  What can you do?  Upsetting.  many
things.

Last night (this morning)  after some writing of ideas and drowsing in the
chair I finally got up and went to bed.  There was a dream.... What kind of
dream?  A dream about... something.  I remember crossing places that were in
the wilderness but close to civilization.  Alomst like Trail places.  a rock
outcropping.  I think there was a swamp somewhere.  At one point a tank
followed me and I was worried that it would harm the "fragile vegetation."
There were others at some time.  We picked our way through a landscape of
twisted torn up streets, rubble, frames from houses....  We were almost in a
war zone.  There was a story in there somewhere but I don't remember it now.
The kernel idea has escaped me.

I woke and went back to sleep and had another sequence of waking sleeping
dreams.  Dreams of being on Trail.  Of being near the end.  Of being near
the Cabin.  Of seeing people that were good.  Of meeting people and asking
them how they were.  Of finding out that they were disappointed in the
ending.  We hoped to be able to stay with people, they said.  I was bussing
between places at one point.  I thought I could be a Greyhound Driver.  I
wonder what it takes?  I found that it did not appeal to me but did not not
appeal.  Every time I turned around my backpack (the daypack) was open and
spilling.  I finally realized that someone was going through it, riffling
through the contents.  I don't know if they took anything.  The only thing
that I wanted to mke sure was okay was my notebook and I could see that.. (I
didn't open it to look inside.)

[End Dream Journal]

[Morning Freewrite]
This is it.  What is it?  I don't know.  I am here and I think I want to
figure out something but I don't know.  I feel that the dreaming is willing
to work with me but I have to work with it.  But I don't know how to yet.  I
am still a novic.  I don't have neough insight to be able to get where I
need.  I don't have enough ability to interpret.  Because I am too worried
about being wrong?  Perhaps that is it.

I don't know exactly where I'm going.  I am a member of a lsot generation.
A generation ago.  Perhaps it is the way we are raised that makes us
something.  And the way I was raised is the way people of my parents
generation were supposed to.  So I am the iconoclast.  The hippie.  The
searcher.  I am the one who has lost something and is looking for it and
cannot find it.  Not them.

Where is it that I am going?  I do not know.  Perhaps I should go to Ithaca.
Trust fate and see what I can find there.  See if there is something there
that makes sense.  Perhaps there is something in the dreaming there.  Robert
Moss works there.  I wonder if there is somehting to a pilgrimage there.
The concept of pilgrimage.  Go and then come away....

Is there something?  Is there something?  Is there?

Playing with words.  Is there some playing with words that makes sense?  Is
there some way to play with words that I can make things make sense?  Is
playing with words good?  should I play with words?  Words?

The sound of words.  The feel of words.  The nuance of their meanings.  The
way they bat each other back and forth.  Words.  Words.  Feel a word slide
between your fingers.  Feel it live within.  Feel a word?  Feel words.
Caress and stroke you.  Feel them call out.  But remember that words are
mere illusions.  THey are symbols and behind the symbols are meanings.  The
meanings are not controled by words, words control meanings.  And so we must
not attempt to control our menaings with words, but reveal them.  Words are
windows.  Not trainers and whips and hobbles, but blinders.  Words are there
to show and not show.  Words are not there to shape.

There is a thing beyond the words.  There is nothing that means.  HTere is
something elsewhere that has something.  I am picturing myself becoming more
and more like a lion.  Inflating self.  Hair bushing out.  Fiery.  But I'm
not a lion.  I do not wish to be a lion.  I don't like the thought of being
a lion.  there is something within my lioness that I cannot -- I don't know.
There is something.  Is there something?

Tired I creep along wondering limping, trying doors and they may be locked.
But eventually I'll find a door I can go in.  Will I go in?  Will I go in
and stay?  And walk another corridor?  Or will I return to the corridor to
walk some more?  Am I seeking perhaps to understand the world as a whole and
through that I am unable to grasp the individual pieces?  Because they are
slippery.  I keep dropping them.  It.  The whole.  Because it is slippery.
Perhaps instead I should attempt to find my individual handholds.  Like
western science break the puzzle down and one by one scan for a way to get
myself.  Up up up.  Go.

[End Morning Freewrite]